Breaking All Her Rules. Maisey Yates
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really. But hey, he had to get off sometimes, and he genuinely lacked the energy to do it another way.
Though tonight, he could easily imagine which image he might...
He cleared his throat. Slightly creepy. That was slightly creepy. But if no one knew...
He pressed his hand against the front of his towel, against his hardening member. Who the hell cared if it was creepy?
His phone rang, the sharp sound making him jump as pulled his hand away from his dick like a guilty thirteen-year-old.
He walked over the phone and swore. If it was Marsha again he was going to growl at her. Because he’d left his phone sitting in the other room on the bed for a reason. He didn’t want to deal with people until he absolutely had to.
He didn’t want to go “take in a show” or have sushi, or get a manicure or whatever the hell else Marsha might think he needed to do to fully enjoy his time in New York. He would deal with that crap when he had to. Tonight, all he wanted to do was stay in his room, order dinner in and jack off. It didn’t seem like a major ask.
He picked up the handset.
“Hello,” he said, growling already.
“Yes, Mr. Camden. There’s a visitor here for you. Grace Song. She’d like permission to come up.”
It was as if all of his penis’s hopes and dreams had come true.
Down, boy, she’s not here for that.
Well, why the hell else would she be here? Unless she was looking for Fox in the City Part Deux after she’d discovered his identity.
Maybe she’d used Google to find him. Though, he had no idea why she would. He was some random guy she’d shared a cab with, who’d done a rather terrible sketch on a card for her.
“Yeah,” Zack said. “Send her up.” He paused.
He looked down at where his hand still gripped the towel. Well, that would have to be taken care of.
He dropped it and left a pool of snow-white terry cloth on the floor before going back into his bedroom and opening up his suitcase.
He ought to get his suit out. If it was wrinkled Marsha would probably have his ass on a platter. Apparently “hobo chic” as she had once called it, was not a thing.
He tugged out a pair of jeans and shrugged them on, pulling them up and stuffing all relevant parts down in there carefully before doing the zipper with even more care. He did not need a zipper incident.
That would be the ultimate irony. He finally got his penis to sit up and pay attention. If he immediately mortally wounded it with a zipper he would just have to tell life to go screw itself.
He heard a light knock on the door and he went out into the living area. He walked to the door and opened it. It really was her. All five-foot-nothing of her. Dark hair still pulled back in that little bun pinned primly at the nape of her neck. Her cheeks a pale pink, a streak of blush paint over porcelain skin. Her almond-shaped eyes were deep brown, nearly black, framed with lush dark lashes.
She was perfection. And he hadn’t even gotten to her figure, which, though petite, packed the kind of punch that...well, that had made him lust again.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.
She looked him over, from his face down to his bare chest, to his jeans, which were barely hanging onto his hips, and the color in her cheeks deepened.
“Your phone,” she said, holding a delicate hand out.
“What?”
“This is your phone,” she said.
“Come in.” She looked to the left, then the right. “What, are you afraid entering my hotel room is felony or something?”
“I don’t know you,” she said.
“We shared a cab.”
“An act I don’t even commit with the closest of acquaintances. I guess I don’t have to worry about you kidnapping me and making a pair of underwear out of my hair.”
“That is completely disgusting. Also, something Pato might do.”
“Pato?”
“He’s a...modern artist.”
She raised her brows. “Okay.”
“Coming in?”
“Sure,” she said, stepping grandly over the threshold. “Now where is my phone?”
“It’s on my bed. I haven’t touched it since I got out of the cab. I’m not in the mood to deal with...well, anything. And I can order fried chicken and pornography from the comfort of my own bed so...”
“Charming.”
“I’m not trying to be,” he said. Except he sort of wished he could be. So that he could...seduce her, maybe. But he was pretty sure he’d forgotten how to seduce a woman.
Like schmoozing at gallery openings, maybe?
Well, that he could do. For very short periods of time. Because Marsha had threatened to get a shock collar for him if he didn’t learn to mind his manners.
“Clearly. Phone?”
“On my bed.” He started walking back toward the bedroom, then stopped. “How did you know where I was staying?”
“I tracked my phone.”
“Damn, you can do that with these?”
“It’s an app. It’s really simple. I can...show you or...or not. I have to...I don’t have anywhere to be.”
“Why is that?” he asked, crossing his arms across his chest.
“Because my boss the...jerk...relieved me of the only client I had left in the day after tearing me a new one because of a client complaining about me. Never mind said client was only complaining because I did not flutter my lashes at him when he made it clear he wanted to get into my pencil skirt.”
“What?”
“The client I was meeting with, right before I got in the cab. He made a pass at me, I politely rebuffed him. He called my boss because I am, apparently, cold and unfriendly. My boss doesn’t care about my side of things. He only cares that I pissed off a client and I am now being punished for not offering a side of sex with my financial advice.”
“He can’t do that,” Zack said. “Your boss.”
“Sure he can, because it’s the client’s word against mine. Because all he has to know is that I dissatisfied a client and the what and why don’t matter.”
“Did you tell him that the guy was being a douche?”
She bit her lip. “Not as such.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means no.”
“Well, why the hell not?”
“Because!” she said. “It’s hard to be a woman in this business. And people treat you like...like you’re there for them, and if you dare complain you’re humorless and mean. And if you call them on their crap you’re shrill. And if you say someone hit on you and it creeped you out they say you’re imagining things, and making mountains out of molehills and I’ve watched, for the past eight years, people being driven out of the more high-profile offices, because it gets to be too much. So I just figured if I worked harder, if I did the right things, I would be rewarded for it, but now I’m in trouble because some guy...I just...it’s not supposed to be like this.”
“No. It’s not,” he said. And all this made him feel like an ass because he’d been about to...thinking about her. And she’d been objectified enough today.
Naturally,